


A Threefold Cord

by cel10e



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: Alternate Canon, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Aromantic, Asexual Character, Gen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-04-02
Updated: 2016-09-04
Packaged: 2018-05-30 15:56:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 13,717
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6430894
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cel10e/pseuds/cel10e
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>“I have been granted authority to release you from this Circle, here, tonight. The price is this: you join the ranks of the Grey Wardens, and swear to dedicate your life to defend Ferelden at all costs.”</i>
</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>The stone walls of the Circle Tower are the only home Damien Amell has ever known — until his entire world changes overnight, and he is thrust into the center of a conflict that will redefine Ferelden forever. </p><p>A reimagining of Dragon Age: Origins. Tags and warnings will be updated as appropriate when new chapters are posted.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Hover over Orlesian text for translations; also in the endnotes of each chapter.
> 
> Many, many, many thanks to [Basia](http://archiveofourown.org/users/beastofthesky), [Anja Beth](http://flourdusted.tumblr.com/) and Nerys for their patience as betas; this fic would never have seen daylight without them.

 

_~ ~ ~_

 

_And if one prevail against him, two shall withstand him;  
and a threefold cord is not quickly broken._

Ecclesiastes 4:12, KJV

 

~ ~ ~

 

“Got it!” Jowan whispered. His voice echoed dully in the stillness of the cellar.

Damien turned, carefully closed the lid of the box he was examining and stood up. _You sure?_ he signed, catching Jowan’s eye. _That’s yours?_ He pointed at the small vial of blood in Jowan’s hand.

 _JOWAN_ , his friend signed back, indicating the vial’s label. _It’s mine!_ Jowan added, grinning.

Damien couldn’t help grinning back. _What do we do with it?_ he asked.

 _Destroy it._ Jowan held the little vial up. The light from the brazier on the wall illuminated the enchanted blood swirling inside, giving it an eerie glow. Jowan brought his free hand close to the vial, almost reverently, and then made a swift, pulling motion away. Instantly, the blood froze.

Jowan flashed a savage smile at Damien, then hurled the vial to the floor.

Shards of glass and frozen blood scattered across the stone. Jowan let out an explosive breath, his eyes suddenly going wide. _Free!_ he signed, repeating the motion several times in his excitement. _I’m free! I can feel it!_

Damien grinned, and turned back to the shelves lining the walls of the cellar. _Mine — here too?_ he signed. Over his shoulder, he saw Jowan shake his head.

“It won’t be here,” Jowan said aloud. “You’ve been Harrowed.”

“Too late,” Damien mumbled.

“Hey.” Jowan caught Damien’s gaze again. _I’m sorry_ , he signed.

Damien shook his head and smiled, again, pointing back at his friend. _You’re free!_

 _Not yet,_ Jowan responded, grimly. He kicked the remnants of the vial aside with his foot. _We have to get out of here, now._

Damien nodded. “Same way?” he asked aloud, following Jowan from the storage room. He extinguished the brazier with a flick of his wrist as they passed, plunging them into total darkness.

“Yeah,” Jowan replied. “Just up here, the hallway should come back around —” He twirled a magical flame around his hand, illuminating the dusty stone cellar again in blue light. “Here.” He indicated a flight of stairs and a door they hadn’t used yet.

“Go,” Damien replied. Jowan nodded, and leaned his shoulder against the heavy stone door, slowly pushing it open. The red torchlight of the hallway outside filtered in as the door scraped outward. Damien blinked in the sudden light, covering his eyes with his hand —

“ _Arrêtez._ ” Knight-Commander Greagoir stepped forward toward the pair of mages, sword drawn and pointed at Jowan. Beside him stood several other templars — though Damien couldn’t tell which, through the helmets — plus the first enchanter, and — Lily?

Damien’s heart sank.

“No,” Jowan whispered. “Lily, no —”

“You were right, Lily,” Greagoir said in the common tongue, folding his arms. “Newly Harrowed, and already conspiring with this blood mage. You were right to tell me.”

“I expected better of you, Damien,” First Enchanter Irving said, softly. Damien shook his head; tears pricked at his eyes. This wasn’t right. It didn’t make any sense — Jowan wasn’t a blood mage, and Lily — she _loved_ Jowan, she had promised — they were going to escape, all three of them —

 _Why?_ Damien signed, catching Lily’s eye. He knew she understood him. _Why? You promised. You promised to help us._

Lily looked away. Damien could feel Jowan trembling, beside him. They had always expected that something could go wrong, that they’d be found out or captured, but this? In her initiate’s robes, with the templars’ flaming sword emblazoned across her chest, Lily was hardly recognizable as Jowan’s lover, their _friend_ —

“ _Retenez-les,_ ” the knight-commander ordered. Two templars stepped forward. Damien edged closer to Jowan, helplessly cornered and hopelessly outnumbered. “This is a crime against the Chantry as well as the Circle,” Greagoir continued. “As knight-commander of this Circle, I sentence this blood mage and his associate to death. Lock them up.”

The templars unhooked the mage-shackles from their belts. The low magical hum of the lyrium-enchanted chains gave way to a stifling silence as the metal touched Damien’s wrists, suppressing his magic completely. Beside him, Jowan was struggling, attempting to wrestle away from the templar’s grasp.

“No,” Jowan repeated, then louder: “No — no!” He pulled one arm free, leaned forward and slid a tiny knife from the lining of his sleeve. He sliced a shallow gash across his collarbone, the only skin he could reach, and desperately pressed his palm to the blood spilling from it. It dripped through his fingers and down, spreading dark stains across his robe. “You will not have us!” Jowan shouted. Damien took a step back, horrified.

Jowan closed his eyes momentarily in concentration; the templars leapt to pull his arm away, but it was too late. Jowan dug his fingers into the wound, then ripped his hand away, letting out an anguished yell. A magical shockwave sent all of the templars crumpling to the ground, along with the first enchanter and knight-commander. Blood sprayed across the stone from his outstretched fingertips. His cry reverberated through the room briefly, then died.

Amidst the bodies, Lily stood unharmed.

It was silent.

A drop of blood rolled slowly down Jowan’s thumb and splashed on the stone. Damien let out a shaky breath; his heart beat loud in his ears. Blood magic. Jowan was — he —

Damien took another faltering step backward. Jowan lowered his arm, slowly; he blinked, looking down as if only just realizing the damage he had caused. He raised his other hand, shackle and all, toward Damien, palm open in an aborted version of _please_. “Look, it’s —” Jowan laughed, nervously. “I only dabbled, it — it made me a better mage! Look!” He gestured to the templars lying unconscious around them.

“I —” Damien shook his head, eyes wide. “Jowan —”

“Please,” Jowan begged. “I’m going to give it up, I swear —” He raised his bloody hand, signing _I promise, I promise_. “We can leave now, just like we planned, look — you can still come with me! Both of you —” He turned to Lily, then, desperately. “We can still escape!”

She looked back at him calmly, disgust written across her face. “I don’t know you,” Lily replied coolly.

Jowan dropped his hands; crestfallen, he turned to Damien one last time. “Damien, please —”

“No.” Damien’s voice broke to a whisper, and he repeated the word emphatically with shaky hands. _No_. _Stay away from me — blood mage._

Jowan took a faltering step backward, nearly tripping over a templar’s body. “I’m sorry,” he said, aloud, glancing wide-eyed between Damien and Lily. “I’m sorry, I’m —” He turned to Damien, devastated, signing the words again and again — _I’m sorry, I’m sorry, sorry, sorry_ — and took off running.

Damien sank to his knees, hopelessly restrained by the enchanted shackles binding his wrists. Hot tears stung in his eyes as he watched his friend disappear. He wanted to run — or did he? He wished he could chase Jowan down and — what, he wasn’t sure. Stop him? Help him escape, after all? Make him explain?

Around him, the templars began to stir, groaning. Knight-Commander Greagoir sat up slowly; he looked around at the others, curling his gauntlet into a fist on the ground beneath him. “Blood mage,” he muttered angrily. “After him!” Greagoir ordered, gesturing in the direction Jowan had fled. Several templars stumbled to their feet. “Do not let the blood mage escape. As for this one —” He stood, and pointed down at Damien, still kneeling on the floor. “Death is too lenient a punishment for this offense. Newly Harrowed, and he thinks to make a mockery of this Circle! Send him to Aeonar.”

Damien looked up, horrified. He had always known the punishment for attempted escape would be severe, but — this? No mage had ever returned from Aeonar. The Orlesian prison was said to be worse than any Circle; mages held there begged for the mercy of death. His vision blurred; blinking tears from his eyes, Damien turned to the first enchanter, who was standing silently, watching the scene unfold. “I didn't know,” Damien pleaded. “Jowan, he - I didn't know,” he repeated, shakily. “He never told me.”

A templar roughly hauled Damien to his feet; he repeated himself, louder. “First Enchanter, please! I didn't know!” He glanced around wildly. “I didn't know,” he repeated, desperately, as the templars dragged him away. “I didn't —”

A cold metal fist connected with the base of his skull, and the world went black.

 

~ ~ ~

 

Damien opened his eyes, and instantly regretted it.

His head throbbed with pain where the templar had hit him, and his wrists were rubbed raw from the rough shackles. The thin layer of old straw between him and the dirt floor of the Circle’s prison did nothing for comfort, either. At least he hadn’t been taken away, yet; the dread of being sent to Aeonar sat heavy in his chest, and the familiar sight of the tower’s stone walls — even from the floor of a cell — was a small comfort.

“Good, you’re awake.” That was Jowan’s voice. Damien pushed himself up, crawling to the bars of his cell. Jowan was opposite him, stripped to his underclothes and chained tightly to the stone wall. Seeing Damien in the light, Jowan smiled, wryly. “I see you got off easy.”

“Maker,” Damien breathed. Jowan’s bare chest was bruised and bloody; the gash across his collarbone was inflamed, and blood trickled lazily from it over his ribs. _What did they do to you?_ Damien signed.

“Questioning.’” Jowan’s fingers twitched in their cuffs. “They had to —” He coughed, weakly. “— had to know if I had any other — accomplices,” he slurred.

One of the templar guards turned toward them, moving a hand to the hilt of his sword. The threat was clear. Damien swallowed. _What did you tell them?_ he signed, once the templar’s back was turned again.

Jowan shook his head. With his wrists immobilized, Damien realized, he had no way to respond. He tried again: _Did you tell them about Lily?_

Jowan shook his head again, though his face twisted at the mention of the name. Of course Jowan wouldn’t have given her up, Damien thought. Even after she had betrayed them both —

_Did you tell them anything about me?_

Jowan shook his head violently. His eyes narrowed; he seemed hurt that Damien had even asked. Damien shrugged. _Wouldn’t have made much difference anyway. They think I’m a blood mage. Like you._ He pointed to Jowan accusingly.

Jowan’s face softened. He opened his mouth as if to respond, to defend himself, but then glanced at the templars and instead settled for an apologetic grimace. Unsatisfied, Damien sat back on his heels. _Why didn’t I know? You could have told me._ Jowan huffed at that; Damien knew he couldn’t answer, but continued anyway. _We were friends_ — he emphasized the _were_ , flicking the sign bitterly into the air — _you could have told me_ , he repeated. _You could have trusted me_.

Jowan actually laughed at that, wheezing for breath in his slumped position against the wall. He met Damien’s gaze, and arched his back, smiling crookedly. The cuts on his chest split open as his skin stretched, oozing fresh blood. Jowan flexed his hands in their cuffs, letting himself hang back against the stone again. He rolled his head to the side, watching his bloody fingers curl and uncurl.

The message was clear: if Damien had known, he’d have been ‘questioned’, too. His innocence had bought him some privilege, for the moment; he had his clothing, at least, and freedom of movement within his cell. His magic was still cut off by the shackles clamped around his wrists, and he could feel the wards etched into the prison walls around him doing the same.

He’d been silenced before, of course; the templars were always standing watch to strike out at any mage who lost control of their powers, and it happened almost daily to the younger apprentices. It had never lasted this long, though. By his guess, it had been several hours since he and Jowan had been captured, and the prolonged absence of his magic was growing more and more disconcerting. It was stifling, not being able to call even the simplest flame to his hands, or to hear the familiar hum of lyrium around him.

Damien looked over at Jowan. His friend — _friend?_ he signed, absently, to himself — had fallen asleep, still slumped against his bloody wrist. The torchlight cast stark shadows over Jowan’s face, pale under his messy dark hair. Jowan curled into himself as he slept, rolling his head further toward the wall. Damien reached a hand out, gripping one of the rusted iron bars of his cell in frustration. He wanted nothing more than to understand — Lily’s betrayal, Jowan’s — blood magic — and none of it made any _sense_ —

Footsteps echoed on the stone floor. Damien blinked. How long had he been sitting there? He pushed himself back to sit against the wall of his cell, squinting to see who was coming. In the low light, he made out a tall figure, speaking quietly in Orlesian with the templars standing guard. After a moment, the templars stepped aside, allowing the visitor to pass. He approached Damien’s cell; Damien stood, brushing straw and dirt from his clothing.

“You are Damien, yes?” the man asked, in the common tongue. Damien stepped back, looking up at his visitor. Two swords hung at his sides, and his clothing was unlike anything Damien had ever seen. Backlit harshly by the flickering torchlight, the stranger struck an imposing figure in the cramped prison.

Damien straightened instinctively. “Yes,” he echoed, then frowned. “Why?”

“From what I hear, you are quite the talented mage,” the stranger continued, crossing his arms. “I find myself in need of someone like you.”

“Me?”

“Indeed.” The stranger nodded. “I am Duncan. I command the Grey Wardens of Ferelden, and I am here by order of King Cailan seeking to recruit mages against the Blight.”

“A Blight?” Damien repeated, incredulous. “Wait — you’re a Grey Warden?” Damien crossed his own arms, mirroring Duncan’s stance.

“I am.” Duncan raised an eyebrow. “Did you expect differently?”

“You —” Damien looked down at his hands, searching for the word. “Exist.”

“So it would seem,” Duncan replied. “I have been granted authority to release you from this Circle, here, tonight. The price is this: you join the ranks of the Grey Wardens, and swear to dedicate your life to defend Ferelden at all costs.”

“I —” Damien hesitated. He glanced past Duncan to Jowan, slumped against the wall in the cell opposite him. Except for a miracle, his best friend would be dead before the next moon rose, and without the Grey Warden’s offer, Damien himself could expect no different. He had taken part in a theft — alongside a blood mage, no less. Either of those alone was a death sentence.

“Let me be clear.” Duncan stepped forward; a shadow fell across his face. “You do not have a choice in this matter. The knight-commander has allowed me one mage, and I do not intend to leave without him.”

“No one else?” Damien asked.

“Only yourself,” Duncan confirmed.

Damien looked down.  It felt wrong, to be the only one to finally escape. He glanced at Jowan, and couldn’t help thinking of Anders, who had disappeared only weeks before after yet another failed escape attempt. None of the mages knew what the templars had done with their friend this time. And after Lynn —

“Can I —” Damien bit his lip. “My friends, can I —”

“We must ride immediately,” Duncan replied. “You will have no time.”

“I — okay,” Damien answered, quietly, looking at Jowan’s sleeping form. “I’ll go.”

“Good.” Duncan opened his hand, revealing a key, and deftly unlocked the cell door. He reached for the shackles around Damien’s wrists, fitting the same key to them. Damien flexed his wrists as the chains clattered to the floor. They ached where the metal had rubbed raw, and his magic was still dampened by the wards around the prison, but there was an almost tangible relief in having even a little of it back.

“Follow me.” Damien looked up; Duncan raised an eyebrow, and turned to leave.

As he followed the Grey Warden from the prison, Damien looked back at Jowan one last time. He felt his magic crawl under his skin at the image of his friend, bruised and bloody, shackled to Templar stone. One of the guards eyed him sidelong. The warding prevented Damien from so much as lighting a candle; still, he shrank from the templar’s stare, turning his eyes to the ground and hurrying to catch up with Duncan.

Duncan led him away from the prison, through the winding halls beneath the Circle. Damien trailed a hand along the wall beside him, remembering how he and Jowan had stumbled through these same passages in the dark only hours earlier. It had always been their plan — destroy their phylacteries and escape, flee to somewhere where the templars would never find them, maybe even find their families —

At least Jowan remembered his family, Damien thought. Jowan was the one who had always pushed the hardest to escape. He had always talked about his father’s farm, about playing in the wheat fields and swimming under the summer sun. Damien knew the details almost as well as Jowan himself; the exact color of Jowan’s mother’s favorite dress, the names of his older brother’s dogs, the way the sun shone through the cracks in the roof above his bed. Jowan would talk for hours about it to anyone who would listen.

Damien himself only had the faintest memories: a woman singing, the tickle of grass under his bare feet, a dog barking in the distance — flashes, snippets, bare threads of memory that by this point he wasn’t even sure were real. The Circle was the only home he had ever known; in a way, he was glad of it. Every other mage had a story of when the templars found them — as children or adults, betrayed by family or neighbors or tracked down by the mage-hunters. He knew how Jowan’s father had delivered him, a terrified, angry six-almost-seven-year old, into the _loving arms of the Circle_ — Jowan’s bitter voice echoed in his head —

Damien clenched his fist, feeling his magic spark between his fingertips. Jowan should have been the one walking free, not him. Jowan, his friend — _blood mage_ —

Ahead of him, Duncan pushed open the last door. They had reached the main hall; the apprentices were rarely allowed this close to the great stone doors separating the Circle from the world outside. Four templars stood guard, watching them approach. Damien recognized one who had arrested them earlier. Jowan’s blood was still speckled across his breastplate, stark brown-red on polished Orlesian steel.

“ _Ouvre la porte,_ ” Duncan commanded, in rough Orlesian. The templars complied, though their gazes lingered on Damien. In his torn, dirty robe, with his hair falling messy over his ears, he felt very small behind the battle-armored Grey Warden. Any moment now, the knight-commander would stride in, announce that it had all been a mistake, and his last hope of freedom would walk away without him.

“Are you coming?”

Damien looked up. The doors stood open. Duncan, silhouetted by moonlight, stood on the threshold, looking back at him expectantly.

Damien swallowed hard, and took his first steps into freedom.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> “Arrêtez.” — Stop.  
> “Retenez-les.” — Restrain them.  
> “Ouvre la porte.” — Open the door. (Duncan's grammar is intentionally incorrect: it should be 'ouvre **z** la porte'.)
> 
> Since we have no record of written or spoken Orlesian that I know of, I am using modern French for the Orlesian language.


	2. Chapter 2

 

The heavy stone doors swung shut behind them. Damien took a deep breath, savoring the fresh air. He could hear insects chirping in the stillness around them and the waves of the lake lapping gently at the stony shore of the little island. It was clear, with the light of the full moon shining silver across the water. Peaceful. A light breeze pulled at a loose wisp of his hair, lifting it away from his face.

Free. He was _free_.

“Come.” Ahead of him, Duncan beckoned, leading the way down to the ferry-dock. Rough steps were cut into the stone cliff, descending to the rock flats where a makeshift dock had been constructed to allow passage to and from the Circle. The lantern hanging from the small ferry-boat glowed softly in the shadow.

Damien climbed down after Duncan, slowly; the steps were barely a foot’s width wide, slippery with wet leaves and moss and almost impossible to see in the shadow of the cliff. The damp began to soak through his slippers, sending prickling gooseflesh up his bare legs. He lost his footing, once, missing a step, and caught himself hard with a hand on the rock face beside him. It came away dirty and scraped, stinging raw.

Getting into the boat itself presented a different challenge. Duncan indicated for him to sit in the front; Damien settled himself nervously on the rough wooden bench, feeling the boat rock in the shallow water underneath him. Was it supposed to feel this unsteady? There was so much water between them and the shore — one leak and they would sink, like a cup in a bath. Were they safe?

The ferryman stepped in after Duncan was seated, and pushed them away from the dock. The long wooden oars splashed gently in the water as he began to row. Damien turned, looking back at the spire of the tower, a black silhouette against the moonlit sky. It looked so small, he thought. Tiny — yet within those walls was everything he had ever known.

The lazy breeze gave way to a cold wind across the open water. Damien shivered.

“Here.”

Damien turned to see Duncan unfasten his fur-lined cloak and hold it out toward him. He reached for it, then hesitated. Was this some sort of test? He didn’t know the rules. He snatched his hand back, hugging his arms to himself. He was _cold_ , but —

Duncan chuckled. He leaned forward, and tucked the cloak around Damien’s shoulders. “You needn’t fear me,” Duncan said, in a soft voice. “I am no templar.”

Damien nodded, wide-eyed, and shrank gratefully into the warmth of the cloak. A shadow fell across the boat. He looked up; they were passing beneath one of the crumbling stone arches of the ancient Avvar causeway. Damien had never seen them before — the arches or the Avvars themselves, who had been driven back into the mountains by the Tevinter Imperium centuries ago, before the Chantry even existed.

Jowan had always hated history.

“He won’t know,” Damien blurted out.

Duncan raised an eyebrow. “Who?”

“Jowan. He’ll think — Aeonar.” His eyes widened as he realized what he had done, and Damien turned away, mortified by his outburst. _Mages never speak first._ The simplest rule at the Tower, and he —

“He was your friend,” Duncan stated. Not a question. Damien nodded, face burning with shame. “I … am sorry,” Duncan continued, after a moment. “It is a price we must all pay.”

A bird shrieked, somewhere in the distance. Damien shivered, pulling the cloak tighter around his shoulders. The gusty wind sent choppy waves dancing against the sides of the little ferry-boat. He wished he had a heavier robe — or a spare one, he thought ruefully. Duncan had pulled him away so quickly there had been no time to even take his things from his footlocker.

His and Jowan’s footlocker —

He wondered what the templars would do with their belongings. Most likely, all of their clothing would be passed on to other apprentices — and the clothing would be most of it, really. The templars would probably find a few sketches Jowan had made, a couple of whittled wooden cats Anders had given them before one of his escapes, a book or two borrowed from the library, perhaps a few pages of notes in scrawly Orlesian from their lessons — and not much else.

Damien couldn’t say that any of those things would be particularly useful to him right now — he shivered, again, feeling his entire body tremble — but it would have been nice to have something, at least.

He hoped Karl would get the cats.

Duncan stood up behind him as they approached the shore, leaning over the edge of the boat to catch one of the dock’s wooden posts.  The ferryman handed him a rope, which Duncan quickly secured; he then nimbly stepped up to the dock, reaching a hand down to help Damien up as well. The boat rocked precariously under his shifting weight, and he was grateful for the solid wood under his feet as he stumbled up to the dock.

“Duncan?”

Damien stepped away from the edge, still regaining his balance, and turned to see someone approaching from the bank. The light from the stranger’s torch bobbed and flickered as he jogged down to meet them. “Did you —?”

The stranger skidded to a halt as he took in Duncan and Damien standing on the dock. “Oh,” he finished. “I see.”

“Alistair, this is Damien,” Duncan said, by way of introduction. Damien folded his arms, staring up at the stranger, suddenly feeling particularly short with Duncan’s long cloak trailing at his ankles. _Maker_ , it was cold.

“Well met,” Alistair remarked, absently, peering down at Damien in the low light. “You didn’t say you were going to recruit a kid.”

“Irving said he completed his Harrowing in remarkable time.”

“Hm.” Alistair looked from Duncan back down to Damien, and shrugged. “If you say so. Are we riding now?”

“Yes.” Duncan nodded, and gestured for the three of them to leave the dock. “We must catch up with the others as quickly as possible.”

“Wonderful,” Alistair muttered.

The Wardens’ boots crunched in the pebbles underfoot as they climbed the bank toward the fire. Damien could feel every sharp rock and twig through the thin padding of his slippers. Jowan had convinced him to wear them, earlier, as they were planning their escape, and Damien was thankful for it now. He had been skeptical of the need for shoes; inside the tower, the apprentices rarely wore them, preferring to go barefoot on the scrubbed stone floors. Outside, though —

“Wait here.” Duncan put a hand on Damien’s shoulder, startling him from his thoughts. “Rest, while you can.”

Damien nodded. He leaned back against the trunk of an old, dead tree, watching the Grey Wardens as they packed up the small camp. He reached for his hair, absently twisting a loose strand between his fingers. Was he allowed to sit down? Damien wondered. Duncan said _rest_ , and he was so tired —

“Hey.”

Damien opened his eyes. The other Warden — Alistair? — was standing over him, nudging his leg with the toe of his boot. Damien scrambled to his feet — he remembered sitting down, but he hadn’t meant to fall _asleep_ —

Alistair laughed. “Hey, whoa, easy —” He stepped back, giving Damien room to peel himself away from the tree. “We need to go, that’s all. You’re riding with me.”

Damien scrubbed at his eyes. Riding what? They were Grey Wardens, so — “Griffons?”

Alistair snorted, then covered it with a cough. “No — er, no griffons. Horses. You have ridden a horse before, right?”

Damien shook his head, frowning. The only animals in the Circle were rats, spiders, and the occasional bird — and a cat, when they had one. Anything else was pictures in books, if that. How was he to know what was and wasn’t real?

“Right.” Alistair sighed, and turned away. “Follow me.”

Riding, as Damien soon discovered, was a uniquely uncomfortable experience. It was fine for the first hour or so: he watched the night sky, freckled with stars, stretch endlessly above them, fascinated to pick out the constellations he had seen in the Tower’s astronomy-books. The novelty quickly wore off, however, and by the time the sky began to lighten, the muscles in his legs and back ached with every movement of the horse underneath him.

“So what did Duncan tell you?” Alistair shifted in front of him on the horse, poking Damien’s leg with the heel of his boot. They had reached the Imperial Highway around dawn. It was now nearing midday, and the great stone highway seemed to stretch endlessly beyond and behind them, as did the lake-shore, always visible in the distance to their right.

Damien straightened, wincing as his legs protested the movement. “About what?”

“Us. Me. Anything.” Alistair gestured with his free hand. “I assume you don’t get much news in the tower.”

“He said –” Damien frowned at the Grey Warden’s back. “The king. Needed mages.”

“That was it?”

“I could be free. If I joined you.”

“Right.” Alistair chuckled. “You know what Grey Wardens are, I guess?”

“Legends,” Damien muttered. “Not real.”

“Well, here we are, in all our glory.” Alistair sighed. “I don’t know how much Duncan wants you to know, but — things are bad. We think there’s a Blight brewing in the south, in the Wilds. The darkspawn are coming up from the Deep Roads for the first time in centuries. Please tell me you know what darkspawn are,” he added.

“Yes, but — not _real_ ,” Damien protested. He knew the stories, of course; how the ancient Tevinter magisters had overreached in their greed for power and corrupted the Golden City and themselves. The Chantry told how the taint transformed the magisters into the first of the darkspawn and brought the first Blight to the land. It was all just that, however: stories, legends, cautionary tales the Chantry told to keep its mages in line. But if the Grey Wardens were real, then darkspawn were —

“Also very real, unfortunately.” Alistair leaned into a turn, guiding the horse around a pile of broken stone. “I’ve only fought them up close a few times, but they are —” He shook his head. “Monstrous. You’re lucky, you know.”

Damien frowned. “Why?”

Alistair held up his free hand, wiggling his fingers for emphasis. “You’re a mage. You don’t have to let them get close to you. Magic’s good for that, at least.”

Ahead of them, Duncan held up a hand, halting at the top of a small rise.

“What is it?” Alistair called.

“Bandits — slavers, likely.” Duncan’s tone was grim. “Damien, get down.”

“What?”

“Get off the horse.” Duncan turned in his saddle to look at them. “Hide your ears. Keep your head down. If they think you’re an elf, they’ll leave you alone.”

Damien complied, bewildered; he wasn’t an _elf_ , and how would pretending to be one help? He tugged his hair loose from its braid, letting it fall around his shoulders. It felt good to be off the horse, at least. His whole body ached from the long ride.

“Here.” He looked up to see Alistair pointing. “Take the horse — here —” He handed the reins to Damien. “Act like you’re leading her.”

They climbed the hill slowly. From the top, Damien could see that the bandits Duncan had indicated well outnumbered the Wardens; three or four men on horseback, plus another few on foot. They looked — _barbarian_ , Damien thought. Terrifying. He found it easy to keep his head down.

“Hold.” The leader spoke. “What is your business here?” His voice was rough, his syllables sharp around the common tongue.

“We are Grey Wardens. Let us pass.” Damien could see Duncan’s hand moving to the hilt of his sword, even as he spoke.

“Grey Wardens?” The leader raised his eyebrows, grinning. “You’ll fetch a pretty price.” He raised his axe, adding something in an unfamiliar language to his men. The sound of sliding metal rang in Damien’s ears as Duncan and Alistair drew their swords —

— and chaos descended. Someone shoved Damien out of the way — he wasn’t sure who — and he fell, hard, against the stone wall edging the road. His sleeve snagged on a withered, dry thornbush growing from a crack in the stone. Thinking someone had grabbed him, he panicked —

don’t touch me, _don’t_ _touch me_ —

He yanked his arm away, breathing hard. The cloth tore away with a loud rip, leaving a jagged scratch down his arm in the process. Cradling a hand to the stinging cut, Damien leveraged himself on his other arm to crawl farther away from the fighting. His muscles were already sore from riding, now shaky with adrenaline, and he only managed a few yards before his knee slipped and his arm buckled under the rest of his weight.

Even as he fell, a boot came down hard on his ankle, pinning it sideways to the ground. Damien cried out, blinded by the sudden pain, twisting himself onto his side with it in a desperate attempt for relief.

“Don’t move, _elf._ ”

Damien drew a shuddering breath. The world seemed to slow around him, to narrow until all that was left was the burning pain in his ankle and the rasp of his ragged breath and the dully shining axe, inches from his face, and the restless, churning magic under his skin that he didn’t even know he had summoned.

He released the breath. A swirling ball of fire took shape around his hand.

Another breath, surer this time —

Damien flipped himself the rest of the way onto his back, sat up and shoved the fireball upward into the bandit’s chest. The force of it knocked the bandit backward against the thornbush; he fumbled a hand over the smoking hole in his clothing, collapsing stiffly to the ground, face frozen in horror. Flames began to lick at the dry branches.

Damien pushed himself to his feet. These men would not steal his freedom. Another fireball flared from his hands, bigger this time, as he looked past the burning bush to the fighting on the road. The two Grey Wardens had been pulled from their horses and were fighting back-to-back, pressed on all sides. Half a dozen men surrounded them, darting in and out with strikes Damien’s eyes could barely follow.

Duncan’s eyes flicked to Damien over the chaos, watching the growing fireball in his hands. He parried an attack, backing towards Alistair, then looked back toward Damien.

Their eyes met.

Duncan nodded.

Damien released the fireball.

Instantly, Duncan pulled Alistair to the ground, covering them both with Alistair’s shield. The blast of flame rolled over them, engulfing the bandits in a blazing inferno.

They _screamed_.

Damien stumbled back, breathing hard.

The charred corpses of the bandits crumbled to the ground. Damien looked down at his trembling hands. A last wisp of flame curled up from his palm, and flickered out. He had — what had he —

Duncan stood. He slid his sword, still clean, back into its sheath.

“Maker’s _breath!_ ” Alistair wheezed, pushing himself to his feet. “You —”

“I killed them,” Damien mumbled. “I _killed_ them — all —”

“Well done.” Duncan stepped nimbly over a smoking corpse, reaching out to the spooked horses. Damien looked down at his hands — still surging with magic — then back to the road. Alistair was rubbing his neck with his sword-arm, gaping at the blackened bodies.

Duncan placed a hand on Damien’s shoulder. Damien shuddered, raising his hands instinctively. “Don’t _touch_ me.” Sparks leaped between his outstretched fingers. “Don’t _touch me_ —”

“Stop.” Alistair drew his sword, taking a step toward them.

Damien whirled on Alistair, wide-eyed, and in his panic let the electricity fly.

Immediately he froze, arm stilled in midair, eyes wide. The hairs on his arm bristled as the arcing sparks raced across his skin. The bolt escaped his fingertips even as he tried to pull it back, desperately curling his fingers in, and he saw the look on Alistair’s face twist from fear to anger to _terror_ and Damien opened his mouth to say something but —

There was nothing.

The bolt of electricity dissipated against a shimmering barrier, suddenly flaring from Alistair’s shield. Alistair’s sword flashed in the sunlight as he pointed it levelly at Damien. Damien blinked; his vision blurred, for a moment, and the griffon rampant on the shield was a flaming sword, the Grey Warden’s long blue tunic a heavy red robe, and —

His magic was _gone_.

Damien doubled over, unable to breathe. He sank to his knees, staring at his empty hands.

Damien looked up at Alistair. The shining sword was pointed down at him, ready to run him through even helpless as he was. Damien’s face twisted into disgust. “ _Templar._ ”

Alistair frowned. His lips moved in response, but there was no sound. It was too _loud_. All of the mana Damien had summoned was now trapped, flooding back into him in a violent feedback loop of deafening silence. It crashed into his body, unable to return or release and there was — nothing —

nothing —

 

~ ~ ~

 

“He shouldn’t be here.”

Damien drifted into consciousness. He was lying on some sort of bed, covered in furs. He could hear a fire crackling, and a sharp, singing metal sound he couldn’t quite place, as well as the voices that had woken him.

“He saved our lives, Alistair.”

“We could have handled that. And he nearly killed us both! If I hadn’t been there to silence him —”

“But you were.”

“He can’t take the Joining. He’s too unstable. If I hadn’t gone with you —”

“But you did.”

Damien opened his eyes. He was inside a small, dimly lit tent. Duncan was sitting at a low table across from him, sharpening a dagger by the light of a small lantern. Alistair was pacing in front of Duncan, and someone else was standing at the entrance of the tent. She was short, with curly dark hair pulled into a loose ponytail. “What happened?”

Alistair turned, apparently noticing her for the first time. “Rachel. He’s a _mage_.” He pointed a thumb over his shoulder at Damien.

“And what?”

“And —” Alistair sputtered. “He’s too dangerous! He burned half a dozen men alive, and very nearly killed us, too.”

“You’re dangerous, too, love.” Rachel smirked, then sighed, stepping in and letting the heavy cloth fall closed behind her. “Alistair, we need a mage. There aren’t enough of us to fight a Blight without magic.”

“Then find a different one. I don’t know.” Alistair pinched the bridge of his nose. “Just because he passed his Harrowing doesn’t mean he’s been trained. He’s just a kid. He obviously can’t control his powers.”

“‘Obviously?’" Duncan stood. His dagger gleamed as it caught the firelight. “He is no more a child than yourself, Alistair. Or have you already forgotten the wide-eyed young man I pulled from that same Circle not six months ago?”

Alistair gaped, for a moment, then mumbled something under his breath and stalked out of the tent. Rachel shot an incredulous look at Duncan, and followed. There was silence, for a moment.

“I know you were listening,” Duncan remarked, sitting back down.

Damien poked his head out from the pile of furs, sheepishly. “Sorry.”

“No need.” Duncan waved a hand dismissively. “Do you remember what happened?”

“Fire.” Damien curled his fingers into the fur. “Silence.”

“Indeed. You fell unconscious when Alistair silenced you. We are now in camp, with the other Grey Wardens.”

“He’s a templar.” Damien sat up, rubbing his head. His entire body ached.

“He was,” Duncan corrected. “Alistair was being trained as a templar before I recruited him for the Grey Wardens.”

Damien frowned. Even outside the walls of the Chantry, templars were templars. It wasn’t as if he had lost his magic just by stepping out the door.

“Duncan.” A large, red-faced man stepped into the tent. “Oh.” He glanced at Damien, then back to Duncan. “One hour,” he announced, and ducked back out again.

“We ride at dawn,” Duncan remarked, by way of explanation. “There are clothes for you here —” He nodded to a pile at the foot of the bed. “I’ll have them leave some food out for you at the fire. Join us when you are ready.” Duncan sheathed the dagger at his side, and left the tent. A draft of wind blew in through the open flap, ruffling Damien’s hair and sending the flame in the lantern dancing.

Damien took a deep breath. Clothing. Food. He could do that.

Damien tentatively slid his legs over the edge of the bed, and stood up into the cold. His toes curled into the damp grass; the chill raised gooseflesh on his legs. He knelt to examine the pile of clothing, unfolding it curiously. A heavy gray cloak was wrapped around the rest of the bundle, which consisted of a blue tunic, long trousers and a pair of woolen socks. His old padded slippers were tucked between the socks, still dusty and torn from the previous day’s traveling. Damien picked one up, rubbing a blade of grass off the sole.

Something was familiar here, at least.

He pulled his night-robe off over his head, wincing as his arms protested the sudden movement. On the bed next to the other clothes, it seemed absurdly small — a wrinkled, dirty thing utterly out of place among the simple neatness of the Grey Warden’s tent.

Damien shivered, and reached for the trousers.

At least they hadn’t given him something complicated like armor, he thought, peering down at himself after dressing. He wished he had a glass, to see if he had put everything on right. He had learned the hard way that most people wouldn’t tell you if your clothes were on all wrong, but he had never known how to tell from just looks or hints.

Jowan would have told him.

Damien sighed. Maybe someone here would be honest, like that. He tugged his hair roughly out of the tangled remnants of his braid, deftly twisting it into a simpler one down his back. It would do, for now, he thought, reaching down to pick up his old night-robe. He rubbed his thumb through the familiar worn patch at the hem, remembering —

He frowned, and let it drop on the ground. He hadn’t been told to keep it, after all. Damien straightened the new tunic, feeling the unfamiliar cloth shift across his body, then straightened himself.

 _Join us when you’re ready_.

Damien took another long, deep breath. He turned to push his way out of the tent, raising his hand to pull the heavy cloth away from the entrance —

A dull _thud_ echoed from outside, somewhere nearby.

Something collapsed into the side of the tent. The table and lantern toppled to the ground as the tent buckled inward, shattering the glass and extinguishing the light.

Another crash —

a choked cry —

“ _Darkspawn!_ ”

 


	3. Chapter 3

~ ~ ~

**Chapter Three**

~ ~ ~

Breathe slow. Don’t cough.

 _Maker_ , it hurts.

Breathe.

Caitlin’s heels dug into the soft earth as she crouched in the small hollow. Above her, she could hear the snarling breath of the lone darkspawn scout she had spotted, hear its footsteps heavy in the mud. She drew another deep breath, suppressing a cough as the air tickled at her parched throat.

The darkspawn stopped.

She closed her eyes, cursing herself inwardly. Her grip tightened on her longsword beside her, dry skin cracking across her blood-crusted knuckles. Another slow, deep breath, tensing as she prepared to defend herself again.

The darkspawn took a step toward her, then stopped again. Another step and it would surely be able to see her. Caitlin knew she was hard enough to miss even without the shining silver plate armor she had been wearing ever since she fled.

She grimaced to herself. Had she known —

The darkspawn turned away. Its squelching steps and rattling breaths faded as it moved deeper into the forest. Caitlin held her breath a moment longer, then cautiously pushed herself up, glancing over the fallen tree which had created her shelter. The vast swamps of the Wilds stretched endlessly around her, disappearing into a low, heavy fog.

Nine days, she thought. Nine days she’d been wandering her way south, hoping against all hope to find her brother in the army camp at Ostagar. Her horse had been killed in a darkspawn ambush — two days ago? three? The damned creatures had been more interested in the easy kill than her, and she escaped to the sound of tearing flesh as the darkspawn greedily claimed their prize.

She would not be so lucky again. She knew that. She had considered abandoning her armor, shedding the heavy plate and mail for the sake of speed and silence. She also knew, however, that the armor was the only thing standing between her and a well-aimed arrow.

What she wouldn’t give for a crossbow and a bag of bolts, Caitlin mused. Her longsword was serving more time as a walking-stick than a weapon as she trudged through the never-ending Wilds. She was reluctant to face the wretched creatures in battle, but she would have appreciated the ability to pick them off from a distance. As it was, she preferred to avoid drawing their attention if at all possible, even if it meant traveling more slowly than she would have liked. She’d be lucky to even reach Ostagar before the king’s battle.

Caitlin pushed herself to her feet reluctantly. She needed to get moving. The sun was beginning to rise, though all she could make of it yet was a hazy brightness through the fog. She needed food, desperately, and actual rest, not the hour or two of fitful sleep she’d been managing each night. Already it was harder and harder to keep herself moving.

A clash in the distance snapped her from her thoughts. Caitlin stopped, scanning the forest for its source, but it had faded. She frowned. Unless her ears deceived her, that was the ringing of forged steel, not the crudely crafted weapons the darkspawn carried. Steel meant soldiers, which meant an army; the king’s, if she was truly lucky, where she might not be executed on sight for the unfortunate crime of existing. Among any other army, she would almost be safer with the darkspawn.

The forest was denser in the direction the sound had come from. Caitlin found herself climbing away from the swamp up a long hill, ducking under branches and between trees. She pushed her way through a thicket of bushes, irritatedly swatting the foliage away from her face. If she could at least get close enough to see without being noticed, Caitlin thought, she could —

Lost in her thoughts, Caitlin tripped rather ungracefully over a root and fell face-first out of the thicket.

Her longsword clattered uselessly to the ground beside her as she barely managed to keep from smashing her nose into a rock. Heart racing, she rolled onto her back, groping for her sword. The breath seized in her lungs and she coughed, weakly, blinking as her vision swam.

 _Maker_ , she was weaker than she thought. What a way to go. Here lies Caitlin Cousland, daughter of Highever, last of her line, who couldn’t even walk through a forest.

Perhaps a grim-faced mason would chisel that into her tombstone one day. She giggled at the thought, then coughed again, wincing. Her throat ached, her head throbbed, and her muscles burned with exhaustion.

Caitlin opened her eyes, staring at the foggy tree-tops looming above her. Maybe she wouldn’t get up. It wasn’t so bad here, and lying down felt nice. She needed rest, after all, and getting up would just make the pain worse —

Someone was shouting, somewhere behind her, very faintly.

She closed her eyes.

~ ~ ~

Damien stumbled away from the tent as it collapsed behind him. Outside, there was only just enough light to see by; the sky was blanketed with fog, and only barely beginning to lighten on the horizon. The dying embers of a fire glowed faintly from a firepit dug into the ground in front of him.

“Get down!”

He dropped to his knees, covering his head with his hands. A pair of leather boots appeared to his right. Damien heard a rush of air as a weapon swung over his head, and a wet _crunch_ as it connected. Blood sprayed over his left shoulder. Damien gagged, turning his head away.

The boots’ owner grabbed Damien’s arm, pulling him to his feet. Damien twisted out of the grip, staring. A man, slightly taller than himself, holding an enormous battle-axe now dripping with the dark blood of —

“That was a genlock,” Boots supplied, helpfully. “I’m Rian. Watch out —”

He shoved Damien behind him, hefting his axe toward another darkspawn — genlock — rushing at them. Damien gaped at the creature. It was shorter than he expected, and had a long dagger in each hand, stained russet with days-dry blood.

Human blood.

The genlock dodged Rian’s swing, ducking nimbly as the axe flew over its head. Its eyes met Damien’s, in that split second, and it grinned, revealing rows of chipped black teeth. It lunged forward, swiping at him with its daggers, but froze midway as a longsword skewered its torso from behind. Damien looked up, wide-eyed, to see the woman from Duncan’s tent standing behind the genlock. She yanked her sword up and out of its body, using a large wooden shield strapped to her other arm to direct its fall to the side.

“That’s Rachel.” Rian gestured with the haft of his axe. “Your name?”

Damien, still gaping at the darkspawn lying dead at his feet, said nothing. By the time he looked up again, the warriors had taken position in front of him and efficiently dispatched two more genlocks, along with the help of —

“Kara.” A tall woman with mousy brown hair and a longbow stepped into view from behind Damien, then offered a hand to him, nodding in mock formality. Damien noticed, belatedly, that the archer was dressed in nothing but a long shift, hair sleep-tousled and feet bare in the grass.

“So _this_ is what gets you out of bed,” Rachel joked, wiping black blood off her brow with the back of her wrist. She turned to give the archer an affectionate grin.

Kara grunted, looking very much still asleep, and nocked her next arrow. As if on cue, half a dozen more darkspawn tumbled into the camp from all directions. Among them were two that stood much taller than the rest. The taller darkspawn wore heavy armor, once-shining metal now tarnished with the same vile taint that seemed to cover everything they touched.

“Those are hurlocks,” Kara explained, loosing an arrow into a nearby genlock. At Damien’s bewildered expression, she added: “Stay behind us. This will be over —” she nocked another arrow, eyes flicking over potential targets before releasing it toward one of the hurlocks — “very shortly,” she finished, nocking yet another.

Damien did as he was told. As terrifying as the darkspawn creatures were, the Grey Wardens seemed to be having no trouble killing them. The three fought with brutal efficiency, anticipating each other’s moves and strikes and cutting down darkspawn as quickly as the creatures could approach. Damien realized, watching a hurlock fall to a sweep of Rian’s battleaxe, that he probably ought to be helping — that’s what he was here for, wasn’t it? Fighting darkspawn with the Grey Wardens? They didn’t particularly seem to need any help, though, and the few spells he knew how to cast would likely just get in their way.

And yet even more darkspawn swarmed around them. Rachel and Rian had inched closer and closer to Kara, protecting her and Damien even as the darkspawn encroached, but it soon became clear that they would soon be overwhelmed not by skill but sheer numbers. They were cornered. Rian found himself facing two hurlocks, and dodged the swipe of one’s longsword only to receive a blow to his shoulder from the other’s mace. He stumbled back, unguarded for the briefest moment, and the creatures seized the opportunity to press their advantage. Kara took the first hurlock down with a powerful shot, her arrow propelled through its skull and out the other side by the sheer draw-force of her bow. She was too slow for the second, however. It raised its mace, snarling —

Damien cringed.

Rachel darted in front of the other three, shield raised, but the strike never came. The hurlock pitched forward with two silver daggers lodged between its bony shoulders. Damien looked up to see Duncan, across the camp, already recovering from the throw, drawing his longsword — how many weapons did the man have? — and leaping over the firepit to come to the other Wardens’ aid. Behind him came Alistair, drawing his own sword, and another man with a greatsword balanced on his shoulder. Rian raised his axe with a shout and pressed back into the fray. His powerful swing cleanly decapitated a hurlock encroaching on Rachel, sending a fountain of black blood spurting into the air.

Damien backed up another step, watching the Wardens fight. They ducked and dodged around each other so cleanly that it seemed rehearsed, like they had gone through all this overnight while he was sleeping. Perhaps they did. Grey Wardens were legendary warriors, after all; they probably spent all their time practicing.

Six Grey Wardens soon stood victorious over a heap of bodies bleeding black, their own weapons and armor spattered with the vile ichor. Except for Rian, who was gingerly massaging his shoulder, none of them had suffered injury.

Kara cracked a yawn. “I suppose I’m not getting my ten more minutes.”

Damien stared at her.

“Incredible.” Rachel shook her head, leaning down to wipe her blade on a patch of moss. “You’re the laziest Grey Warden I’ve ever met.”

Kara hummed in sleepy agreement, ducking back into her tent. The other Wardens watched the canvas close behind her, then moved about their own tasks. Duncan nodded to Damien, stepping around the firepit to stand beside him.

Damien, for his part, couldn’t stop staring at the corpses littering the grass. The cloudy white eyes and wicked teeth of the darkspawn seemed to leer at him even in death. Between the bodies, morning-dew sparkled on the few untouched blades of grass as the sun rose over the treetops.

It would have been beautiful, he imagined. Anders had always talked about watching the sunrise outside like some sort of religious experience, better than anything they could see from the tower.

“For what it is worth, I am sorry you had to see this so soon.” Duncan spoke, looking over at Damien. “However, I will not lie to you. This —” Duncan gestured around the camp. “This is what you will become. You will train, you will learn, and you will fight darkspawn. This is the life of a Grey Warden.”

“It’s —” Damien looked down, searching for the words. “It looks — too easy. Terrible, but — fighting like that, they make it look —”

Duncan smiled, wryly. “If only it were,” he replied, moving toward the collapsed remains of his tent, into which a genlock had fallen, pinned by several arrows. Duncan glanced up into the trees above the camp, nodding in thanks, then began to dismantle the canvas. Damien frowned, and looked up.

A flash of movement caught his eye: an elf, marked with the tattoos of the Dalish clans, was climbing down from her perch on a branch high above the camp. Damien stared at her armor; except for the silver griffon of the Grey Wardens glinting in the dawn light, the leathers seemed to blend with the tree. Even the bow strapped to her back could have been just another branch. The Dalish elves were famous for their craftsmanship — and their secrecy. Damien had no idea they were allowed to be Grey Wardens, too.

“Samahl!” Duncan called. The elf dropped nimbly to the ground, and joined them by the firepit. “This is Damien,” Duncan continued, “the young man I recruited from the Circle. Damien, Samahl.”

Samahl nodded, then bent down to unstring her bow. Damien watched the intricately carved wood flex and relax as the tension was released. The elf slipped the bow into a leather sling, then looked up at Damien. “Did you eat?”

“What?”

“Did you eat. Today,” she specified.

“No?” Damien ventured. He couldn’t remember when, in fact, he had eaten last.

Samahl sighed. “Of course.” She sat down on the grass, patting a spot beside her for Damien to sit as well. From a pouch on her belt she pulled a handful of thin strips of — Damien frowned. He wasn’t quite sure what it was. Bark, perhaps? Did elves eat trees?

Taking a few for herself, Samahl offered the rest to Damien. He accepted readily; one never turned down a gift as precious as food, after all. He rubbed one of the strips between his fingers; it was rough, sticky, and didn’t look any more edible up close than it had before. Noticing his hesitance, Samahl chuckled. “It’s venison jerky. Deer?” She palmed her entire handful into her mouth.

“Deer?” Damien echoed, dubious. “You … eat it?”

Samahl stared. “You’ve never eaten meat before.”

“I …” Damien looked back down at the jerky in his hands. Hadn’t he? He knew, of course, that people — normal people, people outside the tower — ate meat. It was an unheard-of luxury at the Circle, however. Soupy gruel, stale bread and dried vegetables were all the mages ever ate. Occasionally they even had fresh herbs from the garden the senior enchanters kept, but never anything as special as meat, fresh or otherwise.

He picked up a different piece, the smallest of the handful, and carefully took a bite.

“You’re a recruit too, then?” Samahl asked.

Damien nodded, then frowned. “You’re not a Grey Warden?”

“Not yet. Duncan recruited me a few weeks ago.”

Damien hummed, and took another bite. “You’re Dalish,” he said, after another moment.

“I was.” Samahl rubbed a thumb over the beaded strap of her bow-sling. “I left my clan a long time ago.”

“Why?”

Samahl smiled; the wrinkles around her eyes deepened, shadowing sun-brown skin. “I fell in love.”

Damien frowned.

“He was Keeper to another clan. You know what that means?”

Damien, mid-bite of jerky, shook his head.

“Keepers are …” She paused, considering. “Leaders, but not rulers. Protectors. The Keeper holds all the knowledge and magic of the clan. We met at the Arlathvhen, the meeting of all Keepers. I was a hunter — one of the best —” Samahl smiled. “Guarding our clan’s Keeper. And I fell in love.” She stared into the ashes of the fire, watching the soft whispers of smoke still trailing from it. “It was forbidden, of course. Our clan was too small to lose a hunter, and he was intended to marry a woman from his own clan.”

Across the firepit, Rian sat down with a pile of armor, barely pretending not to be listening. Samahl glanced at him, then continued. “I ran away. Packed my things and left.”

“By yourself?” Kara interjected from behind them. “How far away was his clan?”

“Oh, quite far. But I was young, and in love — and carrying his child,” Samahl added. Rian snorted in surprise. “You _what_?”

“You were pregnant?” Kara walked around next to Rian, staring down at the elf incredulously.

“I was,” Samahl confirmed. “Visibly so, by the time I found his clan. He was betrothed by then, but we loved each other more than anything. We wanted a life together, a good life, even if it meant abandoning both our clans.”

“You —”

“We left. We thought —” She sighed. “We thought we were invincible. A Keeper and a hunter. Powerful magic and a powerful bow-arm and love strong enough to conquer the world.”

Damien frowned around a particularly large bite, and Samahl laughed. “Yes, it was foolish. We strayed too close to a human town, forgetting to be careful, and they — they attacked us. Humans and elves both.” She paused, looking down at her hands. “He died. That night, from his injuries. He was too weak to heal himself and I couldn’t stop the bleeding.”

“I’m — sorry,” Kara mumbled, eyes wide. “I didn’t know.”

“I brought him back to his clan. They let me stay in his aravel until our son was born. He was beautiful — the biggest brown eyes you ever saw. Quiet, and curious, and — he looked exactly like his father. I couldn’t bear to look at him. I left him sleeping with the midwife, and I — I left. He hadn’t even been named.”

There was nothing to say. Damien looked down at his empty hands. Rian tugged at the straps of his greaves; Kara shifted uneasily on her feet, and after a moment turned back toward her tent.

Damien’s thoughts turned to Jowan. What if they had escaped, like they planned? He and Jowan and Lily, on their own in the wide open world — with templars hunting them, most likely. Would they even have made it across the lake?

Would they have lived? Even with their phylacteries destroyed, they wouldn’t have known — how to hide, how to find food, how to search out the family Jowan was so sure would be waiting for them with open arms.

Damien’s train of thought was interrupted by Alistair, half-armored, sprinting up from behind him, eyes wide. “I need help!” Alistair wheezed. “There’s a — a knight, or a soldier, or — someone. A woman. She’s —”

“What?” Rian leapt to his feet. “Where?”

“Over there—” Alistair pointed, and took off. The other Wardens quickly followed him; after a moment, Samahl pushed herself to her feet and followed as well. Damien, seeing no one else around, trotted after her; the last thing he wanted was to be _alone_ out here.

The Wardens had gathered near the edge of the forest, where Alistair was kneeling next to a body; a woman, by the long red-gold hair tangled around her shoulders, wearing full plate armor. Maybe a knight, Damien thought. Or even an Orlesian chevalier. Even the Circle’s knight-commander didn’t wear armor that nice. The woman looked like she had been fighting; her silver plate was dented, dirty with mud and spattered with blood, red and black both. A similarly battered longsword lay glinting in the grass a few feet away from her.

“Is she alive?” Rachel dropped to her knees beside Alistair, pulling her leather gloves off with her teeth.

“I don’t know, I —” Alistair stammered. Rachel shook her head, muttering something under her breath. She reached out to pull the warrior’s hair away from her face, and placed a hand gently under the curve of her jaw. After a moment, Rachel looked up at Duncan. “Alive,” she confirmed. “Barely.”

Duncan pursed his lips. “We take her to Ostagar.”

“No. She’ll slow us down.” The man with the greatsword folded his arms, stepping forward. “We already wasted a week waiting for you to fetch that runt from the Circle. King Cailan’s orders —”

“Do not think I have forgotten our orders, Gregor.” Duncan turned, fixing a hard look on the other man. “This woman needs healing and rest, and we will bring her to Ostagar.”

“What she needs is the mercy of a clean death,” Gregor argued. “She dies here or she dies to those creatures on the battlefield. We have a duty and it does not include wasting valuable time and resources on simple soldiers.”

“Our duty is to defend the people of Thedas against darkspawn and the Blight. I will not send a woman to an early grave simply because her life is _inconvenient_ ,” Duncan snapped. “ _This_ is our duty. Do not forget it.”

There was silence. The Grey Wardens stared at their commander. Finally Duncan sighed. “Alistair, Samahl —” He nodded to the templar and elf. “Make a place for her in the cart. Rachel, see if you can get her armor off. The rest of you, pack your things.”

The Grey Wardens dispersed, as instructed. Rachel busied herself with the straps and buckles of the warrior’s armor, hissing softly in sympathy through her teeth as she ran her fingers over the badly dented metal. Duncan pulled Damien aside, standing with his back toward the other Wardens.

“Damien.” Duncan’s voice was low. “Were you trained in the healing arts?”

“No.” Damien frowned. Magic that powerful was kept from apprentices.

“The First Enchanter indicated you had chosen it as your field of study,” Duncan pressed.

Damien sighed. It was true, he _had_ chosen it as his field of study after his Harrowing, after he was officially initiated as a mage of the Circle, but that had only been — he tapped his fingers against his cloak, counting — three days ago. The night before their escape. The healers had all left to answer the king’s summons to Ostagar, so he hadn’t even met the senior mage he was to have been studying under.

“In any case,” Duncan continued, “I want you to protect her.” The Grey Warden indicated the unconscious warrior behind him. “We will likely encounter more darkspawn on the road. Keep her safe.”

Damien nodded, slightly bewildered. Duncan beckoned for Damien to follow him back to the campsite, where the other Wardens were busy strapping on armor and fastening packs to their horses. Several of them were now wearing breastplates matching Duncan’s, with the embossed griffon of the Grey Wardens shining proudly from the center. Duncan’s striking blue and white tabard and gleaming plate gave him an unmistakable aura of authority, even though at least three of his subordinates surpassed him in stature. He had seemed much taller in the low-ceilinged halls of the Circle, Damien noticed.

Even with the delay, they were on the road just past dawn. Damien had been instructed to sit in the Wardens’ equipment cart, perched on a chest next to the narrow space where the warrior, now out of her armor and bandaged, had been carefully laid. He was thankful — his sore muscles, especially — not to have to ride a horse again, even if it meant a bumpy, cramped ride in the little cart. Even more so, he was thankful to have been paired with Samahl, who looked quite small atop the large cart-horse in front of him. The Dalish elf didn’t ask confusing questions or expect him to engage in idle, directionless chatter like so many people did.

Off the Imperial Highway, the ground was rougher, and the road narrowed to nothing more than a pitted dirt path. A steady stream of travelers — Chasind refugees, Samahl said — passed them. Damien stared curiously at the wilderfolk as the Wardens passed a particularly large group; half-clothed women and laughing children, men carrying staves decorated with teeth and bone, muttering to each other and eyeing the Wardens suspiciously. Ahead of the cart, Alistair shifted uneasily in his saddle, resting his hand on the hilt of his sword until the Chasind were safely in the distance behind them.

The hazy midday sun disappeared into a thin cover of clouds. The group fell silent; the only sounds around them were the incessant chirping and buzzing of insects, and the occasional cry of some bird. It was, on the whole, a dismal scene, and Damien was hard-pressed to imagine how the Chasind managed to live in a place like this.

Beneath him, the cart jolted, dipping awkwardly into a pothole. Damien, staring at the landscape, hadn’t seen it coming, and was bumped from his precarious seat on the chest. He slipped, barely catching himself with his arms braced against the sides of the cart. Samahl chuckled, twisting in her saddle to check on him, and raised a hand in silent apology.

Damien began to push himself back up, but froze, catching a glimpse of movement out of the corner of his eye. The injured warrior was stirring, shifting restlessly in the small space.

Damien glanced around to see if any of the other Wardens were watching. Samahl’s eyes were back on the road, one hand loosely holding the cart-horse’s reins and the other absently fiddling with an arrow. The other riders were mostly spread out along the road ahead of them. Kara brought up the rear, with her longbow at the ready. She was examining something along the side of the road, however, and seemed to be paying no attention to the cart in front of her or its hapless inhabitants.

The warrior moved again, in the corner of Damien’s vision. He glanced at her, nervously. Duncan hadn’t said anything about dealing with her _awake_. No knight in her right mind would accept any sort of help from a mage, much less an untrained apprentice — for all she knew, he could be an apostate holding her hostage. Or a Chasind witch, more likely, thanks to his dark skin. He tucked his hands into the cloak.

“Darkspawn ahead.” Damien glanced at the warrior, who had slipped back into a deeper sleep, then looked up. Samahl pointed toward a bend in the road ahead of them. “Stay where you are.”

Damien nodded, eyes wide. He hadn’t even considered doing otherwise. Kara rode up beside them, holding an arrow ready on her bowstring; ahead, the other Wardens had slowed their pace, grouping together cautiously.

The road bent around a stand of trees, and from it, the darkspawn charged. Alistair’s horse reared, nearly depositing him into the road. Damien ducked deeper into the cart, peering nervously over the edge. From the trees poured thousands of creatures — hundreds, thousands? Did it matter? Corpses piled up in the muddy grass and the darkspawn clambered over them, baring sharp, shining blades and teeth, clawing mindlessly toward the Grey Wardens. The Wardens’ arrows and blades cut down them all.

“Emissary!” someone shouted. The darkspawn parted, retreated — defensively? Damien wondered. He hadn’t thought they were clever enough to do anything but endlessly attack. To the forefront stepped yet a different creature; the size of a genlock, yet more heavily armored, wielding a black, gnarled staff —

It had _magic?_

As if to assuage his doubt, the genlock — emissary? — raised the staff. The other darkspawn sneered in anticipation. Damien barely had time to recognize the spell and instinctively summon a spell-shield before a fireball was rolling toward them.

“ _Cover—_ ”

That was Duncan’s voice.

The Grey Wardens weren’t protected, Damien realized. None of them were.

The fireball flared, unfolding, reaching Alistair at the front and —

stopped, flames licking harmlessly up an invisible barrier —

The Grey Wardens turned to see Damien standing in the cart, determinedly holding the spell-shield wide even as his arms trembled with the effort. The flames dissipated into the shield and Damien collapsed, shaking, burying his hands in his hair.

Kara and Samahl immediately took the emissary down, arrows whizzing one-two-three-four as the other Wardens rallied and rounded on the remaining darkspawn. Damien looked up as Rian’s axe cleaved through the last three genlocks in one powerful swing. Kara relaxed her bow-grip, taking her last arrow off the string and sliding it back into its quiver.

“What in the Maker’s name was _that?_ ” Rachel burst out. She pulled her horse around to face Damien. “What did you do?”

“I —” Damien stammered, still breathing hard. Had he done something wrong? “I’m — sorry —”

“You’re sorry?!” Gregor guffawed, pointing with his sword. Damien shrank further into the cart. “Andraste’s flames, you just saved us all!”

“Shut up!” Samahl shouted. “All of you. You’re scaring the kid.” She turned to look at Damien. “Are you alright?”

He stared at her.

“We must press forward,” Duncan interjected. “It is imperative we reach Ostagar before nightfall.”

“What about —” Rian pointed down at the darkspawn corpses.

Duncan shook his head. “Leave them.”

The rest of the journey seemed to pass in a blur. Damien sat in the cart, numbly watching the world roll by. He ate, when food was pressed into his hand — slept, perhaps, dozing off only to jerk awake at every bump in the road — flexed his hands, over and over and over, rolling mana through and over and around his fingers to convince himself that he could, to forget the feeling of throwing himself so far open that not all of it had come back.

What had he done? Surely they all hated him now. The templar hadn’t silenced him this time, but it was only a matter of time before he would be punished for such an egregious use of magic.

Damien shivered, pulled his cloak tighter around himself, and began to dread Ostagar.

~ ~ ~

Caitlin slept.

She was vaguely aware of time passing, of people talking over and around her, of gentle hands changing her bandages, of white-hot threads of magic knitting her skin back together. Voices, speaking around and above and about her. Names, whispered like secrets, questions without answers.

When she opened her eyes, it was night. Flickering light from a torch illuminated crumbling stone walls around her. The familiar weight of a heavy woolen blanket across her legs and the soft pillow under her head made her wonder for the briefest second if she was home, by some miracle, and the nightmare of the past weeks had been only that —

If only.

Caitlin took a deep breath, swallowed down the lump in her throat, and sat up. She was alone, surprisingly, in a secluded corner of — wherever she was. Following the torchlight led her out into an open courtyard, where dozens more cots were laid out in haphazard rows, casting long, splayed shadows across the stones. A grey-cloaked nurse knelt at one bedside. He looked up at Caitlin as she stepped into the courtyard.

“Ser Cousland.” The nurse — an elf, judging from his high voice and short stature — stood, wiping his hands on a cloth.

“Lady,” Caitlin corrected automatically. She frowned. “How do you know me, elf?”

He bowed. “Duncan said to watch you. Ser. Lady?” he added, hastily. “It’s my fault. I wandered off.”

“Duncan?” Caitlin took a step forward. “Who is that? Who are you?”

“He’s a Grey Warden. I am, too. Almost.”

“Grey —” Caitlin broke off, laughing. “No.” She turned, looking around for any other people nearby. As she moved, a jolt of pain shot through her leg. She cried out, collapsing onto her knees. The nurse — Grey Warden? — darted toward her, reaching to steady her. “Don’t _touch_ me,” Caitlin snapped, swatting his hands away. He stumbled back, eyes wide, clutching the offending hand.

They stared at each other, sitting opposite on the cobblestones.

After a moment, Caitlin sighed. “What’s your name, elf?”

“Damien,” he answered. “M’not an elf.”

“You’re — oh.” She couldn’t be blamed for the mistake; he was certainly skinny like one. Dark, too, like the Alienage elves who had worked in the castle. “You’re a Grey Warden?” Caitlin asked, incredulous. The kid looked as if he had never touched a sword in his life.

“Almost,” Damien corrected. “Tomorrow, Duncan says.”

"And Duncan is —?”

“Commander.” Damien’s face brightened. “He wanted to see you.”

“Me?” Caitlin frowned.

“When you woke up. He said to watch.”

“Wait.” She held up a hand. “How long have I been here? Where is this?”

“Ostagar. Three days.”

Ostagar! Then she had made it after all. Caitlin tipped her head back against the wall behind her, considering. Fergus had to be here; by forced march, it was no more than two weeks’ journey from Highever, and he had left two days before —

“I have to find my brother,” she muttered, less to the Warden boy than to the world at large. Forget the king’s stupid battle, forget the Grey Wardens and all of it. Caitlin pushed herself to her feet, willing herself to ignore the pain in her knee. “Where’s Highever camped?”

“What?”

“The army from Highever. Fergus Cousland.”

“Who’s that?” Damien scrambled to his feet as well, opposite her.

“You — are you even Fereldan?” Caitlin asked, incredulous.

“Yes?” Damien hedged.

Caitlin snorted. “Alright. Do you at least know where the army is? Any army.”

“Yes.” Damien beamed proudly.

“You —” She stopped. “Alright. Take me there. Anywhere.”

‘Anywhere', as it turned out, led her down into the low valley west of the fortress, through a forest of faded canvas and laundry-lines into a large tent hung with blue banners. Grey Warden banners, she realized belatedly, matching the white griffon rampant to the heraldry she had been forced to memorize as a child. Maker.

The tent was lit by a single flickering lamp, silhouetting the man seated inside. He stood as Caitlin entered, setting down his pen and parchment and stepping around the wooden table to greet them. “Lady Cousland.”

“And you are —?”

“My name is Duncan. I command the Grey Wardens of Ferelden.”

“Ferelden has Grey Wardens?” They were legends, Caitlin thought. Centuries gone and countries away.

“A few.” Duncan smiled. “Our order was exiled from Ferelden until King Maric’s liberation, and without the Blight’s threat, willing recruits have been few.”

“So you’re here for the darkspawn,” Caitlin mused.

“Aren’t we all?” Duncan motioned to a chair opposite his, and Caitlin gratefully sat. Her knee ached from the walk.

“King Cailan summoned you, then?”

Duncan nodded. “More accurately, we summoned the king. The Chasind have been encountering darkspawn bands in the Wilds for months, now, but it wasn’t until we began hearing reports of a horde that we knew we needed the strength of an army to defeat them.”

“He thinks there’s a Blight.”

“ _We_ do.” Duncan sighed. “Teyrn Loghain has nearly convinced the king otherwise, however. No one has sighted an archdemon yet, and without one it is no Blight. Loghain and many other commanders are sure this is only a large uprising.”

“What if it is?”

“Then we defeat them and go home. I firmly believe a Blight is coming, however,” Duncan stated. “We must treat the first battle as seriously as if it were the last. Blights have devoured cities, peoples, and nations alike; this is no small threat.”

Caitlin leaned forward. “How many armies are here?”

“Too few.” Duncan reached for a piece of paper. “The king’s guard, plus Gwaren, Denerim, Highever — a few lords from the Bannorn, a small delegation from the Circle. Arl Eamon of Redcliffe has also sent word that his men will reach us within the week.”

“Highever’s here?”

“They are. You, however, did not arrive with them. In fact, your brother informed me you were staying with your mother in Highever to conduct the affairs of the teyrnir.”

“He —” Caitlin frowned. “Wait. You talked to Fergus? You — you didn’t tell him I was here?”

Duncan nodded. “You were injured, sick and delirious. Whatever your reason for wandering the Wilds alone —” he glanced sidelong at her — “informing your brother of your condition would have at best caused him needless distress. At worst, it would have invoked both his wrath and yours, for exposing you against your will.”

“You thought I _snuck out_ to be here?”

“I thought nothing,” Duncan corrected. “I did not recognize you until after your brother mentioned you offhand, and I remembered having met you both at the Landsmeet when Cailan was crowned. You are a hard woman to forget, my lady.”

“Call me Caitlin.” She shifted in her seat, processing the flood of information. “So Fergus is here, but he doesn’t know I’m here. No one does. And you — Grey Wardens — are actually in charge.”

Duncan raised his eyebrows. “I never said that.”

“You may as well have.” Caitlin sat up straighter. “I have the feeling you’re going to say next that you won’t allow me to see Fergus.”

“I was going to put it less bluntly, but — yes.” Duncan smiled in apology. “Unfortunately, I cannot allow you to leave this camp.”

“Why in the Maker’s name not?” Caitlin blurted out, standing to look down at him. “You have no cause to hold me prisoner.”

“I do.” Duncan stood up as well. “Take off your bandages.”

Caitlin looked down at herself incredulously. “What?”

Duncan walked around the table and took her forearm, firmly but gently restraining her even as she tried to pull away. His dark fingers untacked the bandage that had been tightly wrapped around her arm, then peeled it away slowly. The skin underneath was flushed and blotchy, riddled with old scars and fresh cuts. Duncan turned her wrist up, revealing a long gash down her arm seeping — black?

Caitlin stared, unwilling to believe what she was seeing.  Thready black tendrils of corruption spread from the gash across her arm, snaking into her veins and turning the skin around it a sickly grey. “It’s —” she stammered, unable to look away. “It’s the —”

“The darkspawn taint,” Duncan confirmed. He released her arm, and Caitlin clutched it to herself, willing herself to forget the ghastly sight. “You are fortunate it has spread so little. However.” He sat back down. “If the taint is in your blood — and it certainly is — it will kill you. You will slowly lose your humanity to the call of the taint until you become a mindless savage like the darkspawn themselves — and then you will die.”

Caitlin laughed. “I’m going to die,” she repeated.

“Not immediately.” Duncan walked back to his side of the desk. “There is a way to delay the taint’s progression for twenty to thirty years. You are in your thirtieth summer?”

“Twenty-sixth.”

Duncan nodded. “You have a choice, then.”

“Die now, or die later.” Caitlin laughed again, shaking her head. “So what’s the price? What’s the catch?”

“I’m sorry?”

“Your — cure, or whatever it is. What do you want from me? Money? Land? Influence?” Caitlin spread her hands. “Name your price.”

“You.”

She froze.

“Yourself. That is the price.” Duncan held out his arm, pulling back his sleeve to reveal the same corruption spreading through his own veins. “We must all pay it.”

“You want me to —” Caitlin raised her eyebrows. “You want me to become a Grey Warden.”

Duncan nodded. “It is your only option.”

“But it’s not.” Caitlin looked down at her arm again. “What if I don’t believe you?”

“You must.” Duncan frowned up at her. “I would not lie to you, Caitlin. The taint will spread, and it will kill you. You have a week at the most.”

“No.” She took a deep breath, looking down at him. “I refuse. I refuse your so-called cure, Grey Warden, and I refuse your death sentence. I am a _Cousland_ ,” Caitlin snapped. “I will not lie down and die simply because you demand it. You have no power over me.”

Fuming, Caitlin turned to leave the tent, nearly tripping over the Warden boy — _Maker_ , had he been sitting there this whole time? He scrambled out of her way as she shoved the heavy canvas open.

Above her, a silver shred of moonlight shone through the clouded sky. Around her, the camp stretched endlessly, torch-lit tents disappearing into the distance. Grey Wardens be damned, she was going to find Fergus, and they were going to set all of this right.

She was going to find her brother.


End file.
